Festina Lente
by 1stTimeCaller
Summary: They have something deeper than skin and sweat could ever hope to reach. She is celestial, ethereal. He knows her soul—he doesn't need to know her body. He tells himself this, and it works. Most of the time.


**A/N: I've been in a writing rut and I haven't written smut since my very first fic so let's find out together if I'm still able to do this.**

There's a kind of freedom to being in love with someone you can't have.

For one, it makes dating easy. Roy is always forthright and respectful towards the women he sees, but he knows what he wants from them and he knows that _what_ he wants won't change.

It also provides a warmth, right at the base of his skull—a security of knowing that no matter what happens in his future, he loves and is loved. It's the kind of love you don't take back. There was a time, before, when Roy Mustang didn't love Riza Hawkeye, but there will never be a time when he stops loving her. He knows this to be true, and knows that it goes the other way, too.

And so with this knowledge, it's easy. Most of the time, he can convince himself that this is enough. More than enough, it's _better_. Better than just a relationship, better than most people could ever hope to find in their lives. In a way, he sometimes tells himself, he and his lieutenant are _above_ the more conventional mannerisms of love. They have something deeper than skin and sweat could ever hope to reach. She is celestial, ethereal. He knows her soul—he doesn't need to know her body.

He tells himself this, and it works. Most of the time.

He is able to be around her without thinking anything untoward. He has been in situations that would test a lesser man's will—alone with her in the office, half-dressed and sharing a room on missions, walking her home, tipsy and giggling, after a night out—and he hasn't forgotten himself. Loving her is effortless, an inherent truth that he doesn't have to dwell on. By comparison, wanting her is unimportant.

So how he finds himself shoving her against the wall of his foyer, with his hand up her skirt, is beyond him.

He doesn't want to think about it too much. He's not sure he even _can_ think about it much, because all he can seem to think about is her skirt. Her loose, flowy, knee-length skirt. He has joked about miniskirts before, his affinity for tight, short skirts that cover very little. But _this_. There is nothing inherently sexy about this skirt, and that's exactly what's driving him crazy.

He can't even see his hand, just the blue-green fabric spilling over his forearm like liquid silk, hiding his view of her. But he can feel her, just as silky, _definitely_ liquid, on his knuckles. The seam of her underwear rubs against the side of his fingers as he pushes them in and out of her. He thinks they may be lace but he doesn't know for sure. He almost finds it hard to believe he's doing this—not just because he never thought he'd be doing this with her, but because he is looking down between them and he _can't see it._ This _fucking skirt._

He leans in to her, pushing the collar of her shirt aside with his nose so his lips have better access to her neck. She tilts her head back and it lands with a dull thud against the wall behind her. His free hand finds the back of her knee and he hooks her leg over his hip-bone. Even then, the fabric of her skirt doesn't strain, just flows with her movements and cloaks her with a modesty that is completely disconnected from the reality of what he's doing to her.

When she grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him in closer, he realizes that he'd zoned out, he had been staring and marveling and doing very little else. He returns his attentions to her neck, then the curve of her jaw, before she gets impatient and turns her head to meet his lips with her own.

He closes his eyes and divides his focus between the feeling of her tongue in his mouth and the feeling of his fingers inside her. He moves slowly, even as he feels her impatience. He twists his wrist and curls his fingers, exploring until he rubs against a spot that makes her muscles twitch. He finds it again, fingertips searching for the parameter of nerves inside her and stroking until she is melting against the wall. Soon, even kissing him becomes too difficult for her to focus on, so he nibbles at her bottom lip as she pants against his mouth. She moans low in her throat and the sound pulls at him, a deep throb bringing him back into his own body after spending so much time on hers.

She whines when he removes his fingers, sighs when he sucks on the muscle between her shoulder and neck as he loosens his belt. He pushes his pants and boxers down, just enough to free his erection, and he feels her leg squeeze his waist in encouragement.

Some part of his brain is aware that there's a bed somewhere in his apartment, and a couch only a few steps away from where they're standing. But it quiets down as he feels her arms wrap securely around his neck and her supporting leg bend, like a coil about to spring. He quickly moves his hands to the back of her thighs, and when she jumps, he is ready, shoving her back further against the wall and supporting her legs as they cross comfortably around his waist. With a few slight adjustments and the guidance of his hand, he pushes her underwear aside again and enters her as slowly as he can manage. They both groan when their hips meet, a natural harmony that makes him bite the inside of his cheek.

He takes a moment to look at her face, eyes squeezed shut and mouth agape as he sets a steady pace to match her breathing. And it's too much, to see her so openly display her euphoria, to see _Riza Hawkeye_ completely unguarded and vulnerable because of _him_. If he thinks about it too much, he'll be overwhelmed. So he looks down between them again, at the expanse of fabric that keeps him from knowing _exactly_ what fucking her looks like.

The skirt is bunched up in places, its folds catching the light with a pearlescent shine. The satin won't crinkle, just flow into whatever shape it needs to be to accommodate their movements. They haven't removed a single article of clothing, and when he frees a hand to explore her chest, he feels the slightly rougher fabric of her bra underneath her shirt. He uses the friction and the force of his fingers to rub against her nipples, and continues to watch the curtain of her skirt shift as he moves in and out of her, picking up the pace. He will never mention miniskirts again in his life, not even as a passing joke. He is a convert to the church that it this cascading, modest skirt.

Something catches the attention of his periphery and he looks up again. Her eyes are open, and she has a tired but genuine half-smile on her lips. She'd been watching his face, he could tell. For a split second, he is self-conscious, wondering what kind of blank, gaping stare he wore as he watched their hips. But her eyes are cloudy and her breathing is shaky, and he knows that she had been enjoying how he stared. It hits him again that _he's_ making her smile, making her moan. He's urging her fingernails to dig into the flesh of his shoulders.

He kisses her then, because if he doesn't, he might say something. Something stupid and reckless and so very obvious that it has never needed to be said before. Her hips tilt upwards and the change in angle produces a wet, slapping sound; it's jarring and ridiculous and almost comical but after a few more thrusts he's obsessed with it. He grunts as he jabs his hips forward as hard as he can, satisfied with the _clap_ of his skin against hers. The back of his neck feels like it's on fire and her fingers sink so deep into his shoulder muscles that it feels like she's trying to push him to the ground. A high-pitched moan passes from her mouth into his and suddenly there's no rhythm or consistency, he's just rutting against her as fast as he can manage.

He tears his lips from hers and she buries her face into his neck. As she tightens around him, she practically squeals, a distorted, choppy sound that pulses to the rhythm of his thrusts. He grits his teeth as she spasms around him, and he slows down to fully enjoy the feeling of her coming apart in his arms. For a few moments, she goes limp, her legs slipping from his waist down his hips, before she regains some energy and adjusts herself, squeezing her thighs as she climbs back up his body. He hasn't finished yet, but the urgency in him fades as he feels her clench and unclench, a deep throb that spreads through her body and into his.

When she pulls her head back, her eyes are closed. He stops moving completely, watching her face scrunch in confusion before she opens her eyes, a question on her brow.

He just smiles at her, lifting a hand to wipe her wet fringe from her forehead. Her eyes widen in surprise, but soften almost immediately after. She smiles back, exhales an exhausted little laugh, and he leans in to capture the dazed sound between his lips.

He starts moving again but there's no rush anymore on his end. He lets the pleasure rebuild slowly, his entire body taut and practically shaking by the time he comes inside her with a deep groan. When the starburst of white behind his eyelids fades away, he loosens his hold on her and pulls his hips away, and she takes the opportunity to unwrap herself from him, landing on the carpeted floor gently.

He watches her skirt fall perfectly into place, ending just below her kneecaps and smoothing out as if nothing happened, before he even has time to catch his breath. If she were wearing something tighter, she'd have had to pull it down. Something shorter, and he would likely see the slow trickle of their mixed fluids running down her thighs. But he doesn't get the chance; she quickly smooths herself out and moves past him, heading to the bathroom without a word.

He tucks himself back into his underwear and pulls up his pants, but leaves the belt loose. He glances at his end-table and sees a small stack of papers, and in the clarity of solitude, her remembers. She had come over to give him some paperwork, so as he could spend tomorrow at home and still get the important work done. He's been exhausted and overworked and he has no vacation days left, so she had orchestrated a way for him to get rest and still claim to be working.

When she returns from the bathroom, he watches her as she walks toward him. Her skirt is no different but there's a flush to the skin of her cheeks and neck, there are some wrinkles in her shirt and her fringe is still damp with sweat. The same exhaustion that has been weighing him down for a week returns, but it's tempered by seeing her step close to him, her face a little unsure, as if she doesn't know what to do or say next.

He loves this woman, loves how she pushes him when he needs it, how she helps him when he's overwhelmed, how no matter how far away his thoughts stray, she will always keep him grounded. He wants to thank her. Hug her. He wants to drop to his knees and crawl under her skirt as if he were hiding from everything in the world but her.

He settles for kissing her, sweetly and gently, to reassure her, even if he's just as unsure as she is. The floodgates are open now, and he'll never again be able to convince himself that he is above wanting her. There are more important things, probably always will be, but just like loving her, wanting her is an inherent truth. It will never go away.

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and I especially hope you enjoyed enough to leave a review.**


End file.
